life's a kick

  He doesn't look 40, does he? A couple of years ago, I picked up a renowned book by Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck. I realized after going through the first few pages, that the book didn’t really offer anything new to me, courtesy my sibling teacher, my brother. What the book tried to teach in logic and words, my brother had taught me all along through practical demonstration. Almost all the good habits I have internalized so far, are owed to him. On his 40 th , it’s about time I pay my gratitude in ink. Let’s start with my first life lesson: Abandon labels In the 80s, even with limited access to TV for children of my generation, Bollywood faces were household names. Among them was the lesser known singer and widely popular actor-comedian, Tuntun. In those days, Tuntun was synonymous with overweight bubbly women. As the heaviest among three siblings, never mind that I was just five, brother chose to christen me Tuntun. It didn’t take any ceremony for the na...

  The village Chaandi was nowhere like its name in appearance. The Indian village, situated in a remote corner in one of its poorest states, translated literally to ‘silver’. Its fiscal status, however, did not make it any lesser for siblings Rashmi, Rahul, and Rama, all of 10, 8, and 7 respectively. For them, Chaandi was not just silver, it was the gold of their annual vacations. They came here every year with their parents, for this is where their paternal grandparents lived. The excitement would begin much before the journey did. They’d save money and buy their stockpile for months in advance. Jam-centred Jim-Jam biscuits, candies which could stand the sweltering heat of Indian topical summer, and the chief favourite of all - Cigarette shaped toffees. The toffees were bought with equal contribution and rationed out with exact accuracy. In their 36 hour train journey and two months of village stay, the trio would mimic smoking adults in all ways possible. Each trying to outdo...

“Ae sun, main tera naam bhool gayi” (Hey there, I forgot your name). She remarked with cocky impudence, pointing her index finger in his face. “Shukriya bhagwaan ka ki bhool gayi” (Thank God you forgot it). He spat back with matching distaste. Face deadpan. Eyes challenging. Two seconds later, they burst out laughing. She slapped him on the back, and he jumped as though bitten by a snake. Smiling ear to ear, the two proceeded in opposite directions. She, the store GM. He, the pantry boy. This is what the woman looked like, smiling and professional, draped in a perfect sari  All this transpired in ten seconds, while I was waiting my turn for using the washroom. Rewind 30 minutes. I was out shopping at this store in Connaught Place with my mother. We were trying (like all good Indian buyers) to get some discount on the stated price. That’s when we were introduced to this woman, the Store Manager. She heard us patiently on how we’d sworn by the store for the l...

The bohemians were about to meet me. The boho girl with twinkling eyes. With her equally zany partner with his ear to ear grin. My favourite couple, this. Love and excitement welled up within me. The way it always did. At the thought of her. At the mention of them. At the mere prospect of meeting these jovial people. Play. Mischief. Banter. All good feelings flooded my heart. The reunion happened on the swanky sidewalks of Gurgaon Cyber City. Her hugs were always brief; she never seemed too comfortable with cloying show of emotions. His were the languorous kinds. One could never have enough of the both of them. After receiving and giving snug hugs, we settled someplace for lunch. She next to me, he right opposite. I don’t remember what the name of that restaurant was nor what we ordered. But I do remember, with HD clarity, the moments that will remain etched in my memory forever. The talk was about their Kashmir trip, from where they had just returned. Given her classy a...

Soul Sentinels “ Shiv bhaiyya, aur kitna chalna hai ?” Baby’s voice echoes through the forest. A strident sun shines on her damp face. Sweat runs in rivulets down her collar bones. Other trekkers halt, exhausted. They look at each other. Consensus is established that Baby looks sexier when she’s sweating. Shiv, our trek-guide, doesn’t consider her cry stop-worthy; not even a head-turn-worthy. He moves on with an impassive face, motioning us to follow suit. “Chalo, chalo,” he shouts with irreverence. As though he’s herding sheep. Baby curses under her breath and drags her feet again. Other members of B-204 wonder if she’s cursing at Shiv or them. We are in Himachal, and trekking on the Pir Panjal range, towards Chanderkhani Pass. We have started the trek from Naggar camp, at around 5800 feet above the sea level, and aim to climb upto 12,000 feet in 3 days. It’s the first day and we’re already steeped in self doubts. The terrain is between steep and very steep. The sun is me...

जाने कैसे घूम फिर कर हर बात, हर रात, तुम्हीं पर आ कर टिक जाती है. तुम्हारे छोटे चड्डे के उधड़ते हुए धागों पर. तुम्हारे बौराए हुए घुंघराले बालों पर. तुम्हारी कविता जैसी आँखों-पलकों पर. तुम्हारे चंचल भाव-भंगिमा पर. तुम्हारे माँ जैसे स्वभाव पर . तुम्हारी कल-कल बहती हंसी पर. तुम्हारी इतराती-बलखाती अदाओं पर. तुम्हारे सुकूनदेह स्पर्श पर. तुम्हारे गालों के भंवर पर. अनुभूति कुछ भी हो, दिनचर्या जैसी भी बीते. अहसास जैसा भी हो, माध्यम जो भी रहे. अभिव्यक्ति कुछ भी हो. निष्कर्ष तुम्हीं तक लाता है. जब हर दिशा, दशा, मंज़र, रस्ता, गली, चौराहा एक ही मंज़िल दर्शाये - तो जान लेना चाहिए के वो भीतर तक घर कर चुका है. कि हम उसके उतने हो चुके हैं कि उसके बिना अपना पूर्ण परिचय देना कठिन पाते हैं. अपना पूर्ण होना भी. पूर्ण जीना भी.

The image of the three of you. Standing barefoot on Candolim beach; clouds gathering over the horizon. The sky a stormy shade of grey. The breeze in your hair. The ecstasy in your hearts. The silent bonds of love all around and within. The sea swelling and roaring in its full glory. The image of the three of you. Sprawled on one of the beds of B-204. Shoving and pushing and making and giving way. In order to accommodate four adults in a space meant for two. The image of the three of you. Poring over a sheet of paper. Blank as a bare wall. Motifs and messages shaping up in all eyes, waiting to be drawn. Glitters, water colors, paint brushes, round chips of mirrors, ribbon, balloons, bustings reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY – all Itsy Bitsy branded – strewn over the place. Like a riot of colours. And then, the perfect idea strikes. Thoughts start taking shape on paper. In cards that will become most cherished possessions of life. Achingly beautiful patterns. Soulful mess...

मस्त पवन सी चाल चले वो चुटिया पीछे झूली जाए जाने कैसे वो हंसी खेल में छू कर देती गम के साये   काम करे ऑफिस में जब वो मोदी का भी सर झुक जाए रसोई, कपडे, घर, इस्त्री में रोज़ नए इतिहास बनाये   बात रही जहां आवभगत की लोगों को पलकों पर बिठाये खाली पेट आप चल दिए तो पोटली बाँध कर घर पहुंचाए   Friend, philosopher, guide कभी , कभी बकैती की पुल बनाये dance करे मवाली वाली Mimicry से सबका दिल लूट जाए   ओ परी , घुंघराले बालों वाली नानी दादी सी गुणों में समाये चुलबुली, चटपटी, प्यारी, कोमल तुमसे दिल-घर रौशन हो जाए अब तुम बिन हमसे रहा न जाए … अब तुम बिन हमसे रहा न जाए…

This was her third flight in the day; finally taking her home. Toying with the silver ring on her finger, Janhavi, for a change, was too tired to entertain thoughts. There was a time when the mere sight of it lifted her spirits, or doomed them, depending on where she stood on the wave of love. Whether she was riding the crest or drowning in the troughs. That was years ago, when hope still nestled in her heart. That’s when she had cultivated the habit of running her fingertips over the smooth curve of the ring. Strange bittersweet comfort would suffuse her nerves upon feeling that circle of love. Presently, she turned and toyed with the ring absentmindedly. In plain mental ennui. That’s when his voice fell like sledgehammer on her conscience. Suddenly alert like a dog, she sat up with a start. All senses acutely at work. Within seconds she searched the source. Sitting two rows ahead of her, on the right side of the aisle, she saw the head whose every contour she knew. By heart....

Of the few mercies granted by life, one is ensuring supply of things. Things, not people. One would rather opt-in to be supplied with desired people, but life doesn’t grant anything that’s people dependent. Except oneself. If you get what I mean. Thrifty hearts, however, find solace in ascertaining anything little they can. Even if it’s something as plain as papayas. And so it’s heartening to note that it’s within my reach to plan my fruit supplies every week. Being working and managing home all by oneself has its challenges. One has time to stock up the fridge only once a week. While other fruits don’t play very hard to get and survive, papayas are particularly snobbish. I mean an apple will taste the same on Monday and Friday, so will pomegranate. But papayas and bananas belong to the category that have to be picked carefully, their ripening stage staggered day-by-day, to make sure that you get the correct taste on your breakfast table each day. After a year of buying my own...

जब चुना तुमने बाहर का द्वार फंदे के रास्ते तुम्हारे साथ रुखसत हुए   तुम्हारे बेबात नखड़े तुम्हारी बेबाक हंसी तब पता चला कि है नहीं दुःख पचाने की ताकत मुझमें या हमारी तीसरी सहेली में जब देखा उसको भी मैंने तुम्हारा नाम आने पर हाथ मलते यकीनन सब ठीक न था यह तो सात दिन पहले तुम्हारे चहरे से बयां था जो तुमसे प्रकट न हुआ उसका मर्म हमें खींचता है दुखद, अज्ञात, भयावह तुम्हारा, हमारा जीवन एक अधूरा सवाल उसके उत्तर की अपेक्षा है या तो व्यर्थ, या ज्ञान का निचोड़ तुम्हें दिखते हैं न हम? ग्लानि की अज्ञेय-सी लाचारी से जूझते हुए? एक अलग ही रिश्ता था हमारा जिसके तीन भिन्न पूरक थे एक अनकहा सा प्यार हमारे बीच (तुम खुल कर कहने से ठहरी) वो प्रतिदिन मिलने का अनुशासन गवाह था, प्रौढ़ मित्रता का निजी बातें अप्रत्यक्ष, पर सब पता आलिंगन, शायद एक भी नहीं फिर मैं क्यूँ देखती हूँ आये दिन तुम्हारी तस्वीरें तुम्हारी मलाई-नुमा बाहें तुम्हारा साइड-पोज़ में इतराना हमेशा मुंह पर आते बाल और दांत-छिपाए फोटो वाली सभ्य मुस्कान कितन...